Less Than Civil
by Dragonlover24186
Summary: It's been over 50 years since the War of 1812, Can the rift between these two be healed so easily while America is torn apart?


_What am I doing here..._

Arthur had questioned himself the entire journey across the ocean. Why was he there? It happened nearly a year ago, he heard of the battles occurring on American soil. He wanted to simply ignore it. America was no longer his charge, his little colony, why would he need to help him? He needed to face the realities of being an independent nation and war was the first step in that. Yet there he was, stepping out onto the lawn of that same young man, for the first time in nearly a century, maybe longer, maybe shorter; he could not remember it well. He had stayed away due to his pride, but he just could not ignore the nagging feeling he had now, something was very wrong with America and he needed to attempt to see him. But why today? September 17, 1862.

_He is probably going to shut the door in my face...that bloody git...If he even opens the door. He still hates me doesn't he? But do I still hate him? Oh stop it you wanker, just knock on the door. _

Before he could, a cry was heard from inside. England tried the door. _Locked._ He searched around for the spare key. America kept it in the same place all these years, at the foot of the stairs, under the middle plank. He inserted the key, hesitating to turn and open it, fearing what he would find inside. All hesitation disappeared when he heard another outburst from the house.

"America!"

The inside of the house looked nearly the same as it was when he left it all those years ago. It was eerily quiet for such a large home, especially since all the commotion had simply vanished. That's when he noticed it, the trail of blood leading from up the stairs to down into the living room. His heart started beating faster. Where was his old charge? His little brother? His heart dropped when he found him, lying on the couch in a pool of blood. It dripped onto the floor, little by little, creating a puddle on the wood floor. His clothing was dyed a deep scarlet color that also plastered itself over nearly his entire body. It looked almost as though he wasn't breathing, that is, until one could hear a faint whimpering that turned into a slow groaning. England slowly moved across the room, reaching for the young man.

"America..."

He got no response.

"Alfred...Alfred!"

America's eyes slowly opened, revealing a dull lifeless blue. His usual ocean blue was clouded, glossed over with the pain and turmoil that was now found in his country. His face was lacking the eager smile, the rambunctious energy that was usually found there. America had his glasses on the table, so distinguishing who was in front of him was a difficult task.

"A-Arthur...?"

"Yes, it is me Ameri-Alfred"

"But...why-"

"Look at you, you are a mess"

Before America could even gather what happened, England was back with some more bandages and a tub of water.

"Can I?"

America simply nodded. The Briton just tugged a bit on the bandages loosely around America's abdomen.

_He must have tried to dress it himself. _

England started removing the blood, only to notice its source; a large, gaping wound stretching across his shoulder, down to his hip. It was deep and seemed as though it had just opened again. America didn't even flinch when the cut was touched, the pain had numbed his whole body. The reflected cut across his chest was faint and scattered, it seemed to just now be forming. After his entire abdomen was wrapped up, England looked to him again. America hadn't responded at all, he was in a perpetual daze and England was going to knock him out of it.

"Alfred why di-"

"You haven't called me that in a century"

"What?"

"You always call me 'America' or one of those weird insults ever since then...Why are you here anyway?"

"I...I just thought...maybe you needed some help"

"And here I thought that you hated me, never wanted to talk to me again"

"You thought that...I? Heh...we haven't talked since then have we?"

"Unless you consider arguing and yelling as a form of communication"

"Well Alfred I-"

"I know exactly why you're here, you and France just want to swoop in after all this happens to pick up the pieces for yourself. I'll have you know I'm not done yet"

"You think that? Of course not, I'm not going to do that ever, I recognized when you became your own country remember? Why would I even think of that..."

"You probably jus-"

America stopped, clawing at the bandages covering his chest. The pain was becoming worse and worse while the discussion went on. Suddenly, the blood rushed away from his face, leaving a cold, pale surface to his skin. The pain was catching up with him, as much as he wanted to ignore it, that day had been the worse so far, but he couldn't show England how bad it hurt. He felt the need to keep up a strong front, he couldn't reveal how weak he truly felt at that time.

"England, why did you come today?"

"I...I wanted to see how you were doing"

"I thought you didn't care how I was doing anymore, I wasn't your problem anymore"

"Alfred, you'll always be my problem"

"I do cause you trouble, now don't I? Haha"

"That's also...not the only reason why I came here"

"Oh? Did you want to have some tea or something cuz I don't think I have any!"

"No, you git...I wanted to talk about something serious"

"I didn't' know if I was dreading this conversation...or hoping for it"

"You know what I wanted?"

England found himself worrying over the swings in America's mood, but was willing to dismiss them for the chance to speak with him.

"Here, let me get you something to drink, you need to keep hydrated"

With that, England went off into the kitchen. Right as he left the room, America finally let the pain come upon him, clenching the right side of his chest, he could feel it; every scream, every bullet flying on the battlefield that day. Fully engulfed in the daze, he found an object on the table, a glass. He grabbed it gingerly, observing it for a moment before, _crash_, he split it in two. The noise alerted England, who promptly went back into the living room, finding his brother mere seconds away from elongating the cut on his chest. When he snatched the glass from the young man, America just sat there staring at his hand for a second.

"Alfred! What do you think you're doing!"

The tears started streaming out of the younger's eyes, "It's all my fault England...It's my fault that my people are fighting, my fault that I'm breaking in two, even the wound on my back is my own f**king fault...I keep losing it England...I end up doing things like that every time...and I can't even remember the damn thing. I stabbed myself, literally in the back, about a year ago...and it just spread from there. Why...why can't I do anything! Why do I feel so weak...so damn helpless. I'm falling apart...look, my hand is even trembling. Even my own hand tries to kill me every time it gets a chance...I'm done aren't I? Just when I was becoming a strong country, the universe just smites me...I can't seem to do anything right..."

"Al, just stop it...none of this is your fault. Wars like this are a part of most country's pasts. Everyone makes it through it ok, you hear me? Not to mention you're stronger than any of us you bloody idiot. If someone could survive this, it's you, there's not a doubt in my mind"

"Then why has everyone abandoned me..."

"W-what..."

"Matthew left...I haven't heard from him in nearly half a year. France stopped trade with me, you stopped trade too. Everyone did. The world is cutting me off...leaving me all alone...and...and...I don't like it...being alone..."

"None of that. I thought you were a hero, heroes don't just give up when things get tough. They never give up and I'm not going to leave you alone, I'll be right here with you"

"That's what you always used to say England...you would be back...but you would leave for months or years, never once letting me know how you were. You don't know how much I idolized and admired you back then, you could do no wrong in my eyes, that is, until you changed. It wasn't even really you...it was your boss, i know that now. If I wasn't such an idiot I would have seen that all those things I was complaining about, they weren't your fault at all. But then again...you had to have known right? That I couldn't stay your colony...I would never amount to anything staying like that, but if you did, why did we even have that war..."

"I just panicked...I wasn't ready to lose the little child I found all those years ago, but deep down, I knew that day would come, I just thought it would much later...But even now...you hate me don't you..."

"Arthur, I've never, for one second, hated you. I've been upset before, like after what you did in 1814, but I just felt more betrayed than anything. I wanted my freedom, but I never wanted to sever the bond we had. I just wanted things to be like they used to, I wanted my older brother back. Even now I do, but you hate me now...so I don't even bother anymore"

"You think...I hate you? No...no I don't. I never came back because I was scared, scared that you would hate me, never wanting to be a part of each others lives again"

"I wrote you letters, believe it or not, but I never had the heart to send them. I figured you wouldn't even read them, probably burn them or something"

"I never would have done that, maybe we would be having this conversation much earlier. My own stubbornness made me keep ignoring you in all those meetings, never wanting to bring back those feelings of loneliness..."

"I never wanted you to ignore me. I wanted us to be friends, brothers like before...just because I'm all grown up now doesn't mean we can't..."

"I was just so hung up on what you were like when you were younger, I couldn't accept who you became now"

"I'm still that same kid you found in the wilderness. Now I have confidence, power, an identity of my own. I could actually help people now, do good in the world like I always wanted to"

"I see that, you wanker...Now let's get you to the hospital"

Shaking his head no, America continued, "No. There are lots of people who need those rooms. Besides, there's nothing they can do for me. I can handle it"

"No you can't. You nearly passed out on me twice while I was dressing your wounds you twit..."

"Look, you're not the boss of me anymore. You may be my brother, but I can do whatever I want to, that's what freedom means"

England paused for a second.

_He called me his brother just now, didn't he?_

"Fine don't leave then. But you need someone here to look after you"

"Matthew was here for a while, but he had to leave. I can't get any of my people to help me, I can't choose sides like that. The only person I could have would be..."

"That's it then, I'll stay with you"

"What? I mean...I know I'm not your colony anymore, so technically I'm not your responsibility, you don't have to take care of me...you don't have to worry"

"Nonsense, I have no pressing matters and, more importantly, you're my little brother. Regardless of the past, I'm here to help"

"Well...I don't know how much longer I can keep this up...How long it can last..."

"Nobody does Alfred...But your people are strong, I'm sure they'll end this. As I have no prior engagements and I really have nowhere better to be-"

"I'm sure you have better things to do than stay here with me..."

"Of course I don't. You're my number one priority right now, taking care of you is my job remember"

"I guess there's no changing your mind then? Thank you...Arthur..."

The pain surfaced again. He was writhing in it, groaning as wave after wave found its way through his body. He finally lets out a scream, undoubtedly from the incredible agony he is faced with now. His brother wraps his arms around him, attempting to calm the young man down, but his body is racked with pain and sorrow. He reaches up, bunching together the cloth that he grabbed from his brother's shirt. America held on to it, like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him up. America was breaking. England knew it, he tried holding onto his little brother, to keep him together.

"Arthur...please...just please don't leave me alone"

He kept repeating that phrase as he buried his tears in the shirt of the older brother. If he was going to survive the war, he would need the support he so desperately craved.

September 17, 1862...the bloodiest day in American history.

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><p>DISCLAIMER! I am no writer, I'm just doing these for fun :D So sorry, but with my busy schedule, I won't be editing or revising any of these. Feel free to leave a review if you so wish, but if it's critical, I'll take your criticism but I'm not big on revising X( sorry! I love fluffy reviews though<p> 


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